


The Clothes Make the Man

by gloria_scott



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Crossdressing, Gen, Marvel Universe Big Bang, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 18:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2478764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's looking to find himself again, or, five times Bucky Barnes wore somebody else's clothes and one time he wore his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Camouflage

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out the fabulous accompanying artwork by Zephre [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2479631)

MISSION STATUS: FAILED

TARGET STATUS: INJURED

TARGET LOCATION: ~~38.895604, -77.059817~~ UNKNOWN, AT LARGE

 

Leave the man on the river bank.

_But I knew him._

 

DEFAULT PROTOCOL: SURVIVE UNTIL EXTRACTION

TASK: RETREAT TO SECURE LOCATION

 

Head northwest to elevated area with unobstructed view of Potomac.

Find cover.

Rest and regroup.

 

TASK: ASSESS AND REPAIR DAMAGE

 

Cybernetic prosthesis operating at 72% capacity.

Anterior dislocation: right shoulder. Multiple lacerations: abdomen, left lower quadrant; right thigh, four centimeters above knee; right mandible. Sprained ligaments: left ankle. Deep tissue bruising: right thigh, diffuse. Superficial facial bruising: left suborbital, right temple.

No life threatening injuries detected.

Reduce dislocation. Pain within acceptable tolerance limits. Right shoulder range of motion restored to 85%.

Search and rescue teams deployed to helicarrier crash sites. Evade detection and capture. Cross the river and take cover until nightfall.

 

TASK: RENDEZVOUS WITH S.T.R.I.K.E. TEAM ALPHA

 

Continue heading southwest to coordinates 38.878050, -77.099004. Execute urban counter tracking protocol.

Enter safe house zero six one delta.

Current time: twenty-three hundred. No contact with S.T.R.I.K.E. Team.

Retrieve med kit from cache. Clean and suture lacerations. Abdomen. Thigh. Face.

_Don't look at me._

Right shoulder range of motion near 100%.

Weapons inventory: auxiliary sidearms COP 357 Derringer and Intratec TEC-38, one M203 high explosive grenade, one M203 buckshot direct fire grenade, two ball grenades. Primary sidearm SIG-Sauer P220, Skorpion, and all tactical blades lost in helicarrier wreckage.

Retain all but M203 grenades.

Retrieve Gerber Yari II tactical blade, SIG-Sauer P226, and two clips from cache.

Current time: twenty-four hundred. No contact with S.T.R.I.K.E. Team.

_I'm hungry._

Retrieve field rations and water from cache.

Current time: oh one hundred. No contact with S.T.R.I.K.E. Team.

Fatigue exceeding tolerance levels.

Location secure. No threats detected.

Sleep.

Current time: oh seven hundred. No contact with S.T.R.I.K.E. Team.

_There isn't going to be an extraction._

 

DEFAULT PROTOCOL: FAIL-SECURE COUNTERMEASURE

 

Auxiliary sidearm, 9mm round to the head, right temple.

Discharge sidearm.

Discharge sidearm.

 

Fail-secure countermeasure failed.

 

DEFAULT PROTOCOL: …

 

_Live._

 

Remain at current location until nightfall.

 

TASK: SECURE ADDITIONAL RATIONS

 

Exit safe house and head east.

Enter alley behind restaurant on North Pershing. Search dumpster for edible rations.

Hold! Take cover behind pallets.

Approaching vehicle is law enforcement, not military.

_They're looking for me._

In case of combatant engagement, retreat through restaurant, use civilians as cover.

All clear.

Combat gear is a liability. Civilian camouflage required.

 

TASK: SECURE CIVILIAN CLOTHING

 

Yellow bins in gas station parking lot contain clothes and shoes.

Retrieve bags. Retreat behind building away from streetlights.

Target nondescript items, dark colors, no logos or other identifying marks. Outer jacket to conceal sidearms. Hat with brim to evade surveillance cameras.

Discard combat gear in trashcan. Retain only weapons and boots.

Safe house may be compromised. Locate alternative shelter and take cover for the night.

_I need to find something._

Take cover for the night. Resume search in the morning.

 

TASK: GATHER INTELLIGENCE

 

Current time: oh eight thirty.

Acquire vehicle. Head east into Washington, DC via 395. Abandon vehicle on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Continue on foot. Execute urban counter tracking protocol.

Enter coffee shop on 3rd Street. Acquire unattended civilian laptop and latte. Utilize free wifi in adjacent hotel lobby.

_Too much sugar._

Take up position in southwest corner, clear of surveillance cameras. Unobstructed view of E Street, large panel glass windows, no reinforcement. In case of combatant engagement, exit through window or emergency exit ten meters east.

Twelve civilians in lobby, three hotel staff, no visible security staff. No active threats identified.

Bypass rudimentary laptop security measures. Access web browser.

Search terms: man on bridge

No relevant results.

Search terms: HYDRA SHIELD

Secretary Alexander Pierce found dead...believed to be at the very heart of the HYDRA conspiracy...extent still unknown...many operatives remain at large...

Senator Stern detained for alleged involvement with HYDRA...

Black Widow to testify before Congress...controversial former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Natasha Romanoff has been called to testify before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence today...

Captain America cleared of all charges...Steve Rogers was unavailable for comment...

Search terms: bucky

No relevant results.

Search terms: gunman assassin bridge

Police still have no leads on the mysterious gunman and his accomplices responsible for the Roosevelt Bridge massacre...23 confirmed dead, dozens more injured...also responsible for the death of S.H.I.E.L.D. Director, Nicholas Fury...considered armed and extremely dangerous...

_Look up._

The man on the Metro bus placard is the man on the river bank (is the man on the helicarrier, is the man on the bridge, is the man on the train).

Visit the Smithsonian's Captain America exhibit. Now through September 2014.

_Find him._

 

TASK: RECONNAISSANCE

 

Blue Line to Smithsonian, off-peak. Head north on 12 th  Street. Enter National Museum of American History.

Security measures: three armed guards, one posted at door, one at x-ray inspection, one at metal detector, bearing standard issue 9mm Glocks, seventeen rounds each.

Engage dampening field countermeasure to evade weapons detection.

Exit locations: first floor Constitution Avenue, second floor Mall. In case of combatant engagement, retreat to east-side staircase, exit via Mall. Head southeast.

Crowd assessment: no active threats identified. Locate Captain America exhibit. 3 East.

Faceless mannequins. Empty uniforms. Relics.

_Where is he?_

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes – the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.

 

_Quiet._

 

_Quiet._

 

_Quiet._

 

_The man with my face stares down the barrel of a gun. The man with my face falls a long, long way down._

Maintain situational awareness. Crowd assessment: no active threats identified.

_Cold and quiet._

Path to nearest exit unobstructed.

_The man with my face was a war hero (best friends since childhood, inseparable)._

Heart rate elevated.

_Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century. Spoon fed lies by a man called Pierce (Secretary Alexander Pierce) and I swallowed them._

Blood pressure, galvanic skin response elevated. Initiate biofeedback counter measures.

_The man with my face...they tortured him, mutilated, killed him. He didn't deserve this._

Biofeedback countermeasures failed.

_He didn't deserve any of this._

 

Belay further countermeasures.

 

_My work will be a gift to mankind._

 

MISSION: ELIMINATE HYDRA

TASK: ACQUIRE TARGETS


	2. Casual

What is it they say about losing your keys? They're always in the last place you think to look for them. Steve considers that old chestnut now as he emerges from the elevator in his apartment building. Overhead lights that had worked fine that morning are suddenly dark, and he spies a distinctly Bucky-shaped shadow within the deeper shadows at the far end of the hall.

So this was the final leg of the whirlwind goose chase then. Bucky had led him and Sam through Eastern Europe and former Soviet bloc states, to Malaysia, California, and the northern wastes of Canada. His movements had been easy enough to track; they had simply followed the trail of bodies and burned out secret bases – the wrath of the Winter Soldier made manifest. In the end, he was always too many steps ahead of them and when the trail finally ran cold, Sam had convinced him to give it a rest.

“It's just a pause, not a full stop,” Sam had said. “Just enough for us to catch our breath. He'll turn up again sooner or later. And when he does, we'll be ready. But you won't be ready if you keep going the way you're going.”

He didn't like it, but he'd learned to trust Sam's judgment when he could no longer trust his own. So here he is, back in DC just two hours. And here's Bucky, ten steps ahead of him again, in the last place he thought to look for him.

Steve hesitates only a moment, then turns away from the shadow and walks in the direction of his own apartment. When he enters, he leaves the door open behind him and drops his rucksack on the floor. Sam would chastise him for keeping his back turned. Still, he ignores the stealthy movements behind him. This was Bucky wanting to be found, not the Winter Soldier on the hunt.

He doesn't really have a contingency plan for this particular scenario, so he makes one on the fly. Clean him up, then feed him, then give him a place to sleep. _We can even put the couch cushions on the_...Steve quashes the thought before he can finish it. Let's not jump the gun. He walks straight to the bathroom and begins drawing a bath.

Steve keeps his back to the door, listening. The sound of churning water masks the subtle noises of his guest's movements. Was he even in the apartment? It's a few long and breathless minutes before Bucky appears behind him, reflected in the steam-clouded mirror like an apparition of his former self: tangled hair, an overgrowth of beard, dirt and rust-colored stains on clothes that look as if he had rolled a soccer dad for them.

"Hey, Bucky.” Steve's voice is steady and casual, but his heart's pounding. He stands stock still, hoping not to spook the apparition into disappearing. “Thought you could use a hot bath."

Bucky's eyes go to the tub, assessing the situation for a moment, before mechanically stripping to the waist and dropping a gray fleece pullover and t-shirt to the floor. He kneels down beside the tub and plunges his hands in, dousing his head and half the floor with water.

“No no, it's a bath. You need to get in it.” Steve winces at how stupid that sounded. He could just hear Bucky's sarcastic retort clear as day in his head. _Don't you think I know what a bath is, you chucklehead?_

Bucky just leans back on his haunches and peers up at him. His silence is deafening.

“Or not, you know. Whatever works for you,” Steve says.

Bucky stands and strips off his navy blue track pants, wet fingers leaving dark imprints on the cloth. He steps into the tub and sinks down into the rising water. Steve slowly reaches behind him to turn off the tap.

“I'll just, uh, get you something else to wear, okay?”

He gathers up the soiled clothes and carries them out, leaving the door cracked open. After a moment's deliberation, he dumps them in the kitchen trash can. Back in the bedroom, he keeps his ears open as he rummages through dresser drawers. It's awfully quiet in there. Too quiet.

He gives a surreptitious knock on the door and pokes his head in. Bucky hasn't moved.

“You okay, Buck?”

No answer.

Steve opens the door a bit wider. “Need some help?”

Bucky says nothing. He just sits there, dank hair dripping over his shoulders, a thousand yard stare boring a hole in the tiled wall in front of him. Something tells Steve he's going to sit like that until kingdom come if left to his own devices, so he kneels down next to the tub and grabs the bottle of shampoo. He puts a dab in his palm, then makes a slow approach, at any moment expecting Bucky to object with a _Get off! What are you, my mother?_

But the objection never comes. Bucky not only allows the touch, his shoulders relax and his eyes half close. He slumps down and leans into it, like a cat.

Steve finds this encouraging, so he tries another conversation starter.

"You know, I've been looking all over for you."

Bucky inhales deeply and straightens up a little, like he just woke up. "I had some things I needed to do."

Steve grins, mostly because he got a response at all. There was nothing funny or pleasant about the 'things' Bucky had been up to. He continues running his fingers through Bucky's hair, sorting though the tangles.

"Yeah, I saw a lot of your handiwork. Bucky, I..."

"No!" Bucky flinches away and Steve reflexively pulls back, hands dripping soap suds down the side of the tub.

“What, did I hurt you?”

Bucky stares at him with steal-tipped menace behind his eyes. "Stop fucking calling me that. That guy's dead. I'm not him."

"Bucky, I..." Steve starts again, hardly able to stop himself.

Bucky surges up with a splash and Steve stands with him. "Say it again and I'll leave, so help me."

"All right, all right. I'm sorry. Here, rinse off.” The last bit comes out sounding way more terse than he meant, but his heart's pounding in his ears and he cannot lose him. Not again. He reaches down and pulls the plug to empty the tub, then turns the shower on.

Bucky hesitates, and in that moment the sharp menace in his eyes fades to a dull blankness. He parade turns as if following a drill sergeant’s orders, and ducks his head under the streaming water. When the last of the suds are gone, Steve shuts the water off and hands him a towel. Bucky doesn't take it – he's somewhere else again, long gone – so Steve dries him off.

He wraps the damp towel around Bucky's waist and guides him over to the closed lid of the toilet to sit so he can run a comb through his hair. While he was disappointed at the lack of flying cars in the future, little conveniences like 2-in-1 shampoo plus conditioner were a godsend Steve continues to be thankful for. He's able to make short work of the tangled mess, even though it looks like Bucky's hair hasn't seen the tooth-end of a comb in who knows how long.

Steve finally picks up the tenuous thread of their conversation again, trying to bring him back to the here and now. “So...what should I call you then?"

Bucky doesn't answer. Maybe he has no answer yet, beyond _I'm not that_. Maybe he has no way to positively identify himself within the negative space he inhabits because of what they did to him.

"James?" Steve ventures.

Bucky looks up at him blankly, but doesn't respond.

“Or Barnes?” Bucky looks away.

"Okay, James it is then. It's kind of weird, though. I don't think I've ever called you that before, as long as I've known you."

Still no definitive response. Steve takes it as a sign of acquiescence, if not total agreement. At least he's not threatening to leave.

When he's done, Bucky's hair hangs shiny and smooth, straight down to his shoulders. Steve takes a step back. "There you go. Fresh as a daisy."

He leads Bucky out to the bedroom where he's left sweats and a t-shirt neatly folded on the edge of the bed. Bucky forgoes them and clambers into bed, dropping the wet towel on the way. He's asleep almost instantly.

So much for the contingency plan. Feeding him will have to wait until tomorrow. Steve settles down into a nearby chair and keeps watch well into the night.

***

_Sinking...sinking...can't breathe...smoke and ash and the stench of blood...I did this._

Wake up!

Unfamiliar location; perform risk assessment and establish situational awareness...

_No, this is Steve's place. It's safe._

_Are these for me? I think these are meant for me._

Get dressed. Empty bladder. Wash up.

_I'm so hungry. Where's Steve?_

The subject is in the kitchen. Cooking.

_Mm...pancakes._

Go get them.

***

After a rocky start, Steve finally has breakfast underway. He'd forgotten he didn't have a single edible thing in the apartment after being gone for so long. A sheepish knock on neighbor Sharon's door and some shameless begging had secured milk, eggs, coffee, and pancake mix. All it cost him in exchange was the promise of dinner at a time and date to be determined.

Bucky slinks silently into the kitchen while Steve's hunched over the stove top, contemplating the contents of the frying pan as if he might find the answer to the conundrum he's just gotten himself into. How the hell is he supposed to actually make good on his promise of dinner now that Bucky is in the picture? It takes a few minutes for him to notice Bucky hovering in the doorway wearing the clothes Steve had set out: a pair of khakis and a checked shirt over a plain white t-shirt. He even seems to have combed his own hair. The scruff would have to go, though. Maybe Steve could convince him to have a shave today.

Steve pauses mid-flip, pancake poised on the end of the spatula. “Have a seat,” he gestures with his elbow to the kitchen table, already set for breakfast.

Bucky slides into a chair without a word. He eats everything that's put in front of him, while Steve settles in and pretends to read the paper. There's no sign of last night's storms; he's perfectly calm, and his eyes are even a little less distant than they have been.

Last night, well, that had been rough. Steve had awakened to Bucky screaming, his whole body thrashing in the throes of a flashback or a nightmare, Steve didn't know which. Everything he did to try and help only seemed to make it worse. The only thing he got for his troubles was a left hook that would have shattered the jaw of any other man. In the end, all he could do was watch as Bucky's cries turned from whimpers to sobs, and then finally to the ragged breathing of an uneasy sleep. So he watched, even though his heart might break for it.

It's all backwards, see. Bucky was the one who had always taken care of _him;_ even on Steve's darkest days he'd always known just what to do to make it all better. But Steve's totally at sea, just making it up as he goes along. He's been so focused on just finding Bucky and bringing him home, he never gave much thought to what came after. Bucky deserves better than that.

 _I need to do right by him_ , Steve chastises himself. _After everything that's happened, I owe him that much, and more._

"There's someone I'd like you to meet, a friend of mine. Are you up for it?" It's a gamble, and probably too much to get him into the PTSD group this soon, but at least he can introduce him to Sam. Officially, that is. Engaging in mortal combat with someone doesn't count as actually meeting them.

Bucky pauses mid chew and scans Steve's face as if he's searching for something. Steve doesn't know if he finds it, but he drops his gaze and continues eating. "Sure."

Well, that was unexpected. Steve lets out the breath he's been holding and smiles. But soon, Bucky's falling away into the distance again, and nothing Steve says seems to draw him back. He's here, but he's not home. Not yet.

 


	3. Femme

“You want me to babysit Bucky.” It's not a question. Natasha just wants to clarify that Steve is, in fact, asking her to spend some quality time alone with the man who put bullets through her shoulder and abdomen on two separate occasions.

“Yeah. Sorry, Nat, I couldn't get out of this commitment.”

“You mean date.”

“It's not a date, it's just dinner and it's just for a few hours.”

“Whatever you say, Cap,” Natasha smirks. “Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah, whatever you do, don't call him Bucky. He really doesn't like it.”

“Then what am I supposed to call him?”

Steve shrugs. “He tolerates James.”

“He's not going to try to kill me again, is he?” she asks, joking on the square. She shoots a glance at the-man-who-is-to-be-called-James currently casing her living room. He seems docile enough now that he's out of his battle dress and not armed to the teeth. Of course, that could just be a trick of the bland and slightly too large for him khakis and button-down shirt he's wearing. Just a shot in the dark, but based on both the size and the blandness, they're probably Steve's.

He's been in DC over a month now and he's still borrowing Steve's clothes? Someone needs to take that boy shopping.

“No, of course not,” Steve says, “but...you know, if he has a panic attack or something, just don't touch him. And call me!”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “I know how to deal with it, Rogers.”

“Yeah, that's why he's here.” Steve's face is so earnest and worried she almost laughs. Wow, she thought he was uptight before, but having 'James' around has him ratcheted up to critical tight-ass levels. He is in the tight-ass red zone.

“Relax,” she says, giving the arm of his jacket a playful tug. “He'll be fine. It'll be fun. We'll like, bond, or something.”

After a few more reassurances and backward glances, Steve finally leaves. James doesn't even acknowledge his departure, too busy perusing her bookshelves as if taking an inventory.

“So, I was just making dinner. Hungry?”

No response. He's moved on to the curio cabinet and her small but growing collection of antique matryoshka dolls.

Natasha shrugs. “Okay then. I'll just go do that. You do...whatever. Just stay put and try not to break anything.”

She leaves him in the living room and returns to her half-prepared pot of chili, resisting the urge to poke her head out and check on him every five minutes. How much trouble can he get into, as long as he stays inside?

***

Natalia Alianovna Romanova, a.k.a. Natasha Romanoff. Code name: Black Widow. Other known aliases: Natalie Rushman, Tatiana Sokolova, Alion Vans, Marya Konn, Irina Zlataryova, Audrey

_She tried to garrote me once._

Threat assessment: high risk. Terminate with extreme prejudice.

_No, she's okay. Steve trusts her. She's not a target anymore, she's a friend._

Proceed with caution. Main exit adjacent to kitchen, secondary exit balcony door.

“So, I was just making dinner. Hungry?”

_She likes Sufi poetry. And Russian dolls._

Second floor. Nonlethal drop from north-facing windows.

“Okay then. I'll just go do that. You do...whatever. Just stay put and try not to break anything.”

_What's Sufi poetry?_

Subject has retreated to kitchen.

_Smells good. I could eat a horse._

Free to move about the premises. Single hallway leading to bedroom. Closet door ajar.

_Who needs this many clothes?_

Covert operative. Different guises for different covers, different personas.

_I need new clothes, then. These...don't fit._

Choose something.

_The yellow one. Steve likes yellow._

***

When the timer on the rice cooker dings and she finally does poke her head out of the kitchen, her charge is nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, James!” she calls. “Dinner!”

No answer. Shit! Steve will kill her if she's lost him. He had to still be in the apartment. There's no way he could have gotten through the door without her seeing him, and she would have heard the sliding glass balcony door open if he'd gone that way. She starts down the hall, all of her senses on maximum alert. In spite of the bland, middle-aged suburbanite look he's sporting now, she knows what she could be up against.

Bathroom's clear. Bedroom's clear. Her heart skips a beat when she notices the open window, but then she hears it. She approaches the half-open door of the walk-in closet, listening to soft shuffling noises and the scrape of hangars on rods.

"What are you doing in there?" she says, announcing her presence before opening the door wider and stepping into his peripheral line of sight.

"Trying stuff on." The first words he's said directly to her. The voice doesn't quite match the man; it sounds younger than it should, and far more present than the long distance behind his eyes. He's wearing a strappy yellow summer dress. Sort of. It doesn't fit, not even remotely. The bodice barely makes it past his abdomen, the straps hang half-way down his arms, and the seams at the waist are bulging in a most alarming way.

Natasha stands there slack-jawed for a moment, grasping for what to say. Her first impulse – “Get the hell out of my clothes!” – seems unduly harsh. The second – “You'd better be wearing your own underwear under that!” – seems worse. Touching her stuff has always been a sure fire way to get your hands broken, but she doesn't want to further traumatize him or pick a fight over something so petty. They're just clothes, for crying out loud. Chill. She takes a breath and pauses long enough to put her hackles down.

If you can't beat 'em, dress 'em well.

"Here, none of my dresses will ever fit you. Take that off." She steps in and rifles through the hangars, pulls out a black skirt with an elastic waist and holds it up to him. "Try this."

He strips out of the dress and takes the skirt from her. Boxers, Natasha sighs with relief. She turns her attention to the next task. Finding the right top is trickier, with those wide shoulders and bulky muscles. Then there's the question of that metal arm, still bearing faint traces of a red star that's been crudely etched off with something sharp. Hide it or show it off? She could always put his own (well, Steve's) shirt back on him, but that would have violated her very particular sense of aesthetics.

After narrowing it down to what might actually fit him, she pulls out a rose-colored tank top made of some stretchy fabric that she practically swam in it was so loose. But on him it's tight, accentuating the curve of his shoulders, the contour of his chest, the taper of his waist. It fits well enough. Plus it goes with the skirt and complements the blue of his eyes in an interesting way.

She steps back to admire her work reflected in the full-length mirror on the door. His battle-ready stance is incongruous with this new look, to say the least, and his black GORE-TEX boots are more fascist than fashion-forward. But it all kind of works, in an odd, modern cyberpunk sort of way. He shifts his eyes furtively from his own reflection to her, perhaps trying to gauge her reaction to help work out his own.

Natasha purses her lips and nods. “It's a good look on you. I think we can spice it up a little more, though. Come with me.”

He follows her into the bedroom and she sits him down at a small vanity. She squints, studying his face and formulating a plan of attack.

“First things first,” she says. “Let's get this out of your face.” She grabs a brush and a hair tie, pulling back the dark, tousled mop of his hair into a loose ponytail. “Now I can see what I'm working with.”

He's totally pliant under her ministrations, as she turns his head this way to better catch the light, that way to access his other eye. Hell, she could have made him up to look like a clown or a two-bit whore if she were more of an asshole, but instead she goes for a tasteful, understated look: a touch of eyeliner, lip gloss a shade darker than his lips, finished off with a light dusting of bronzing powder.

When she's done, she brushes off her hands on her jeans. “I like it. You?”

She turns him to face the mirror and he glances in it, looks away, then looks again. His eyes dart to her face and narrow, lips almost twitch with the hint of a smile. Natasha grins back at him.

“Come on, gorgeous, let's go. You can tell me your opinion while we eat.”

Over dinner he seems more at ease, not nearly as contained and on alert as when he first got there. He's slouching over his bowl and there's less of a haunted, hunted look about his face. Hell, he almost smiles once or twice, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Natasha talks and he mostly listens. He answers her questions, briefly, but poses none of his own. Seeing him like this, she has to wonder how much of his former rigidity had actually been Steve's anxiety rubbing off on him.

After she clears the table they move to the living room to kill time watching TV. He flops carelessly onto the sofa and puts his feet up, earning him a stern “No shoes on the furniture!” She hadn't meant it to sound so much like a command, and feels vaguely guilty about how quickly he obeys and takes off his boots. The fabled killing machine – the assassin ghost – scrambling to comply like a chastened corporal. They were going to have to work on that. A little disobedience does a body good.

She settles in next to him and flips through the channels, finally landing on Antiques Roadshow. (It was on the list of “safe” television viewing Steve had left with her. Tight. Ass.) Early into the episode, she convinces him of the advantage of well manicured nails. By the time Mark Walberg is interviewing Tulsa's finest as they stand in line clutching their family treasures, James is sporting a rosy shade of pink called 'Hippy Chick' on his right hand.

She packs up her manicure kit and relaxes back into the couch just as the jazzy intro music to a second episode starts playing.

“Natasha?” His voice is quiet, but it startles her nonetheless. It's the first time he's initiated conversation all night.

“Yeah?”

“What's Sufi poetry?”

She grins and flicks off the TV. Reaching behind her, she grabs her favorite collection of Rumi's works off the shelf and begins to read to him.

 

> _Your grief for what you've lost lifts a mirror_

> _up to where you're bravely working._

> _Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,_

> _here's the joyful face you've been wanting to see._

> _Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes._

> _If it were always fist or always stretched open, you would be paralyzed._

> _Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding,_

> _the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as bird wings._

 

When Steve comes back, James is sprawled on the couch flipping thoughtfully through the book. He's got one foot tucked under him, black skirt scandalously riding up just enough to show a hint of boxers. Steve does a double take, then pulls a wry face.

“Is that eyeliner?”

Natasha laughs. “What's the matter, Rogers? Haven't you ever seen a cross-dressing, super-assassin cyborg before?”

James looks up at him with a face as guileless as a golden retriever. Steve shakes his head and allows a stifled chuckle to escape his tightly wrapped exterior.

“Okay,” he says. “Whatever makes you happy. But could you please put some pants on under that before we leave? I don't want you flashing half of DC on the Harley.”


	4. Modern

“He's been in there a long time.” Steve leans back on the couch and stares pointedly in the direction of the hallway. He's trying to change the subject, and Sam's not sure he's ready to let him off the hook just yet.

It's Tuesday night, and that means beer, pizza and a movie with Rogers and Barnes. (Sam's not sure just how or when they'd transitioned from 'James' to 'Barnes', but 'Bucky' is still off-limits and Sam only had to make _that_ mistake once.) It's become routine, all part of Steve's plan to get Barnes re-socialized in a safe environment, and Sam's happy to be part of that.

What he's not so happy about is the choice of movies. Steve keeps trying to avoid anything potentially triggering, so anything with realistic gunfire, explosions, torture or espionage is out. That's reasonable enough, but Sam's beyond tired of their continued forays into the family friendly section of Netflix.

“Man, you can't rely on kid's films to not hurt. You ever saw _Old Yeller_? Hell, _Iron Giant_ scarred me for life!”

His heartfelt pleas fall on deaf ears, and here they are now, with _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_ paused on the shoe-dipping scene (okay, this was a solid choice, he'll give Rogers this one), in a low-key argument over the proper care and feeding of a former super-assassin suffering from PTSD who has temporarily vacated the room to see a man about a horse.

Sam doesn't mention it, but he had heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open about ten minutes ago and he bets Steve heard it, too. Soft, almost imperceptible creaks from the floor above tell him Barnes is still in the house, so what harm could there be to leave him alone and let him explore? Sam has an idea of what he's doing, anyway.

“All I'm saying is,” Sam says, deciding not to let him off the hook after all, “you treating him like he's made of glass isn't doing him any favors.”

“What, you think I'm being overprotective?”

“I think he's a grown-ass man and you're playing helicopter parent.”

Steve shoots him a quizzical look.

“You're hovering.”

It's not just about the movies. Steve's been keeping Barnes on a short leash for over two months with no sign of cutting it any slack. Not only that, the man's wound tighter than a trip wire whenever he's with Barnes outside of his own apartment.

Steve squares his jaw and digs in. “Sam, come on. You know what he's capable of. I have a responsibility to the public as well as to Bucky.”

“Has he been violent?”

“No, not since those first couple of nights. But that's not the point,” Steve says, contradicting his own argument. So there's something else going on. Sam waits for it, just holds the space for whatever it is that's really causing Steve heartburn to come out.

A flush of anger or maybe frustration creeps up those white Irish cheeks of his, and he leans forward on the couch, punctuating the air with his finger. “Look, I get it, Sam. I do. But you're not with him every day.”

“True, true,” Sam concedes. Time to defuse and deescalate. “So what am I missing? He seems to be getting along pretty well, all things considered; he's way more at ease here than he was.” _More at ease_ _than you_ , Sam thinks. “He practically held a conversation with me tonight.”

“I know. It _seems_ that way. But I keep getting this feeling like...I don't know.” Steve pauses and rubs the back of his neck, then launches into it. “Like it's all just an act. I can never tell what's really going on in his head, if he's really starting to remember himself. I catch glimpses of him sometimes, but is it real? Am I just seeing what I want to see? Because most of the time it's like he's just playing a part, you know? Like he's figuring out what's expected of him so he knows the right mask to wear. He's practically a different person from day to day.”

Sam sits with it for a few moments, until it's clear Steve has said his piece. Time for some truth bombs, delivered with a soft hand – his specialty.

“Steve man, they took everything from him. Every. Damn. Thing. I hate to say it, but he's not the old Bucky you knew, and he probably never will be. It's gonna take time for him to build something new for himself...or of himself...you know what I mean. It's not crazy for him to need to try things out here and there, see how they fit. Your job...our job is to provide a safe space for him to do that.”

Steve shrugs, doesn't meet his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Look, you know your own business best,” Sam says. “Can I offer one piece of advice?

“Shoot.”

“I know you want to make this as easy and painless for him as possible. But it won't be easy, and it sure as hell won't be painless. And sometimes we can only move forward when we're challenged to be right at the edges of our comfort zone. That's where the magic happens, right?

“Right. I'll keep it in mind.” That right there is Steve Rogers-speak for _I hear what you're saying, but I'm going to do whatever the fuck I was going to do anyway_. In other words, this conversation is over.

Steve straightens his back, claps his hands on his thighs. "Well, I guess we better go check on him."

"We?” Sam says. Steve just looks at him and he heaves a world-weary sigh. “Fine."

***

_Can't breathe...gotta go._

Retreat to bathroom, down the hall on the left. Perform physical assessment...

_No, it's Steve. I just can't breathe around him sometimes._

Leave. Exit via back door through kitchen...

_I can't. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. He shows me what to do._

Initiate biofeedback countermeasures; bring respiratory and heart rates within normal parameters.

_Better._

Flush toilet and run tap to avoid suspicion.

_They're arguing...about me. My fault._

Avoid conflict zone. Retreat upstairs. Master bedroom at end of hall. Current garments obsolete; acquire new suit.

_What do I need a suit for? I never go anywhere but here and Natasha's._

Certain establishments require proper attire.

_Maybe he can't take me anywhere because I don't have a suit?_

Tactical boots are conspicuous. Acquire alternative footwear.

***

Sam pads quietly down the hall behind Steve, passed the open bathroom door. A quick glance in confirms the room is empty. They head upstairs. Once inside his bedroom, Sam grimaces at the messy pile of clothes on the bed in his otherwise meticulously maintained space. Barnes is there, partially blocked from view by one of the armoire's open doors.

"I guess it was my turn," Sam says with a shrug and a grin. Steve's kept him apprised of Barnes' habit of 'borrowing' clothes from friends, acquaintances, strangers – pretty much any article of clothing not currently occupied is apparently fair game. Sam thinks it's funny. Steve, predictably, does not.

Barnes takes a step back, but doesn't turn his attention away from his own reflection in the mirror hanging inside the armoire door. He's traded the pinkish tank top and jeans he came in with for a suit: modern cut, maroon color with a metallic sheen, crisp white shirt, black silk tie, polished black wingtips. He catches Sam's eye in the mirror, then looks down, fiddles with the ends of the tie.

"Here, want me to get that for you?" Sam steps up and offers to tie it, careful not to reach for Barnes' throat until he gets the slight nod of assent. He cinches the knot, not too snug, and steps back to take in the full picture.

“Not bad, not bad. It's a good color on you. Right, Rogers?”

Steve's face is an open book – god bless him – and this particular page had something like _Oh, hell no_ written on it and Sam wishes he'd learn to close the damn book every once in a while. Barnes picks up on it, too, because when he looks to Steve for confirmation, his brows knit and he asks, “What do you think?”

“Well,” Steve hems and haws. “It's...” he waves his hand like he's trying to conjure up something flattering that wouldn't be a lie. “I like the tie,” he finally manages. “But...” Sam cringes internally. He really can't just let it slide, can he? “Don't you think it's a little too...” he waves his hand again, “purple?”

Barnes frowns and turns to study himself in the mirror again, so Sam jumps in with some words of encouragement.

“Nah nah nah. Rogers, you're my boy but you don't know a damn thing about modern style. If our Mr. Barnes here,” he says, clapping Barnes lightly on the shoulder, “turned up at the club in this, the ladies would be all over him like....”

“Well, seeing as how we're not going to the club...” Steve's brows are furrowed, and he's studying the interior of the armoire like it's a strategy map for his next battle campaign.

“Why not?” Sam prompts.

“Yeah...no.” Steve says. “What about if we cut it with another color? Like maybe keep the jacket, and pair it with some black trousers?”

“Why not?” Barnes echoes in a fairly good mimic of Sam's intentionally naïve tone.

The question from Barnes is unexpected enough to knock Steve on his back foot. He pauses and stammers a bit before answering, “Maybe some other time. I just don't think...” He pauses again, probably trying to come up with a plausible excuse that doesn't involve his fear of Barnes going full Winter Soldier in the middle of an alcohol-fueled crowd. “It's just not my thing. Plus, I've got a benefit gala at the Kennedy Center tomorrow and I really should rest up for that. Gotta bring my A-game for the big Leukemia Foundation donors.”

Steve makes a silent plea with his eyes for Sam's support. Sam holds his gaze with a look that has the full weight of – _I know you're full of shit and I know what you're trying to do so okay I'll play along. This time. –_ behind it.

“Okay, your call,” is what actually comes out of his mouth. He turns to Barnes. “Some other time then,” he offers as consolation.

While they were talking, Barnes has stripped down to his boxers. He holds the suit pants out to Sam. “Do you have these in black?”


	5. Eclectic

Steve almost doesn't let Bucky leave the apartment in that getup. He has no idea where it all even came from – the brown checkered pants and the mismatched ratty, blue sweater that looks like it had seen better days a decade ago. Bucky's entire wardrobe is a hodgepodge of items he's picked up over the past four months. He'll wear the same thing for days, sometimes weeks, then never touch it again. The only seemingly permanent parts of his recent ensembles are Steve's brown leather bomber jacket and his own combat boots.

He's not even sure why he drew the line at checkered pants, although the thought, _Bucky would never wear_ _that_ _,_ may have crossed his mind. There may even have been some shouting. But when Bucky goes silent, that's when Steve relents, repents, walks it back, whatever he has to do to keep Bucky present.

They arrive at the VA a couple of minutes late. Sam's already started his introduction, so they take seats closest to the door. Bucky can't sit still. His knee's bouncing like a piston and his eyes keep darting to the door every time there's a noise in the hallway or another straggler walks in.

Steve scoots closer and puts a hand on the back of Bucky's chair, providing a bulwark between him and the potential dangers his hyper-vigilance is scanning for. He leans in close to Bucky's ear murmuring, “It's okay, I've been here before _,”_ and tells him the layout of the floor they're on, where the windows let you out, how high a drop it is to the ground and where all the exits are. Bucky silently takes it in, until finally his eyes stop roving and his knee stops bouncing.

Sam opens it up to the group, and there's the usual heavy silence that only lasts a few moments but always feels like half an eternity until one brave soldier steps into the breech. This time it's Franklin, who uses his humor as a shield and gets a few laughs of recognition when he tells them about the time he tried to buy hot sauce at Safeway and nearly had a panic attack because there were too many damn choices. Fucking gourmet chipotle shit, man. Then there's Miriam, the Marine with the haunted eyes and the slow, steady voice, speaking the loss of Junior, her combat tracker dog, in a firefight with insurgents. Josh who'd done tours in Iraq and Afghanistan as an EOD specialist and had played “find the foot” at more IED detonation sites than he could even count (there was always that one foot that turned up in the darndest places). Then Pedro, then Tammi, then Dwayne, all telling different facets of the same damn story. War is a hell our flesh was never made to bear.

Eighty minutes. Bucky's endured and Steve's about to breathe a sigh of relief and ask him how he thought it went when Miriam approaches them.

"Sergeant Barnes, sir?"

Steve's guts take a sharp turn at the honorific, not knowing how Bucky might react. Bucky simply looks up. Miriam launches into another story, this time all breathless and shaky. About how her family had come over from France after the war and her grandfather had been liberated from a HYDRA facility in the south, how he had told her stories about the Howling Commandos, and especially about the one with the quick laugh and crooked smile, whose dead-eye marksmanship saved her grandfather from a bullet to his own head, and how she was sorry if she was imposing but she just needed to thank him for his service.

Bucky just stares at her, pulse visibly quickening in his neck. Steve stands up and shakes her hand, says “Hey, it's nice to see you again,” and “What was your grandfather's name?” and engages her in a way Bucky can't muster, showing just the right amount of respect and care. He's had this conversation a thousand times and it never really gets easier, though he no longer struggles to find the right words to say. Bucky'll eventually learn how to do it, too.

When she finally excuses herself with a warm smile and an appreciative glance at Bucky, Steve sinks back into his chair. Bucky bows his head and leans forward, hands clasped tight.

"I'm not the man she thinks I was,” he mutters. “I don't remember any of that."

Steve can't honestly say he knows just how Bucky feels, but he has learned a thing or two over the past few years of meeting people like Miriam. Things like, how symbols can be stronger than super soldiers, and how stepping back and allowing those symbols to carry some of the weight can be so important for those threatening to be crushed under it. He shifts closer and rests a hand on Bucky's back and tries to explain it as best he can.

They sit together in silence a few minutes more, but Sam's packing up to leave and Steve feels like he can't let him go without checking in. Bucky makes a face when he tells him he's just going to talk to Sam for a minute – really just a minute and then they'll go.

Steve crosses the room with a few half-smiles and nods as people acknowledge him, until he sidles up to Sam zipping up his knapsack.

“Hey!” Sam grins. “So how's it going?” He tips his chin up slightly in Bucky's direction.

“Good,” Steve says, almost too quickly. “You know, and bad. More good than bad lately, so that's something.”

“He's getting out more?”

Steve allows himself a tight smile. “Yeah,” he says and nods, then lowers his voice slightly when he continues, even though there's no real chance of Bucky hearing him over the chatter of the group breaking up. “Wasn't sure we'd make it today, but he came through.”

Sam searches his face. “What about you, Cap? How are you holding up?”

“Okay. I'm okay.” He glances away but senses Sam's still looking at him, expecting more than that non-answer. “It's just that,” he looks over to where Bucky's sitting with his head bowed, and lowers his voice even more. “Sometimes he's almost here, you know? And sometimes I don't know where he is. He's sitting right next to me but I have no idea where he is, or how to reach him.”

“And you're worried you'll lose him again? That you'll never be able to reach him?”

“Yeah,” is all he can manage. Sam's words are painful but bring a certain relief, like setting a broken bone. As usual, Sam gets it and gives voice to the feelings he's been reluctant to admit to himself. He tries to keep a lid on it, but there's this fetid cesspool of shame that roils up every time he feels Bucky slip away. _I should have been able to save him the first time._ He still blames himself, holds on tightly to that blame – his penance for letting Bucky slip through his fingers all those years ago. “Yeah.”

“I know it's hard – maybe the hardest thing there is. But sometimes all you can do is be there for him, and just trust he'll make his way back on his own.”

Steve nods but says nothing. His head knows the truth of it, even if his heart has a hard time catching up. When he finally turns to look for him again, Bucky's making his way towards the door. He slyly snags a black and red striped sweater off the back of Miriam's chair as he walks by and tucks it into the bomber jacket before disappearing out the door.

“Thanks, Sam, but I gotta go.”

***

"Sergeant Barnes, sir?"

_Her name's Miriam. She's talking to me. About a man who died a long time ago._

Threat assessment: low risk. Stand down.

_He was a hero. What am I?_

"I'm not the man she thinks I was.”

_A weapon. An empty shell casing._

“I don't remember any of that."

_I think there's more, though. It's hard to reach, but I think there's more. If I could just..._

“It's not about you, pal, not really.”

_...breathe._

“And it's not about me. It's about what we represent, whether that's a link to the past, or a symbol of what this country can be and why it's worth fighting for, or even where it's fallen short. Those things are are more enduring than we are, and they matter more, too. These folks carried a lot back with them. Sometimes it helps lighten the load if they can hang some of it on us, even for just a few minutes. If they can know we're walking with them, going through the same things, it can make a difference. It's not always easy, but it's so important to give them that when we can.”

_It's too much. Can't carry it all. Not my stuff and yours, and now Miriam's, too. Can we just go?_

“I just need to talk to Sam for a minute. Really, just a minute and then we'll go.”

_I should say hello to Sam. That's what people do, right?_

Subjects' body language is closed. Do not approach them.

_Steve's giving me that look again. Did I do something wrong?_

Target acquired: black and red sweater, chair back, one meter to the left.

_Head's pounding like it's gonna blow. I think I have to go now. It's too much._

Retreat.

_I need to find something._

Go to ground.

_It isn't here. I thought it was, but it isn't._

Retrieve and stow target. Exit and proceed to parking lot.

_I'm sorry._

***

Steve follows after Bucky, feeling the emotional tension of the moment with Sam begin to dissipate like a storm cloud that had threatened to break but instead rolls out to sea. By the time he catches up, Bucky's already sitting on the back of the Harley, ready to go. Steve considers confronting him about his sartorial kleptomania, and maybe Bucky senses that because he jumps in and preempts him before Steve can even open his mouth.

“That wasn't so bad.”

Steve's mouth is open now, but all he can manage is a surprised “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Not as bad as I expected, anyway.”

The tightness in his chest unfurls a bit more and he manages a tentative smile. “So, maybe we can make this a weekly thing?”

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe.”

Steve gets on the bike without mentioning the sweater. He'll let Bucky keep it for a few days. When he's tired of it and discards it for something else, Steve figures he'll return it to Sam to give to Miriam.

Only he doesn't. The next morning, Bucky's gone, along with his boots and the sweater and the bomber jacket. Steve hangs around the apartment all day, cancels his run with Sam, his meet and greet with Senator Collins and her staff. Just in case. But when he cooks dinner at six, he doesn't set a place for Bucky.

Days turn into weeks, and Bucky's continued absence leaves a hollow in his chest that no dinners with Sharon, movies with Sam, or missions with Natasha can ever fill.

 _It's okay_ , he tells himself, even though it isn't. _I'll be here when he gets back_.


	6. Retro

_I look in the mirror, and I still don't know what I see._

Shave. Wash up.

_Winter Soldier, asset, assassin, ghost. James, Sergeant Barnes. Bucky. The names they used for me still don't fit, like they belong to different people. Maybe all of them are here with me. Maybe none of them._

Get dressed: black pants...

_Sam's._

...striped sweater...

_Miriam's._

...scrunchie hair tie...

_Natasha's._

...brown leather jacket.

_Steve's._

_They're all here with me, too._

_So why do I feel so alone?_

 

_I don't want to be alone anymore._

 

_Time to go. I don't fit here, either. It was nice to feel useful, though. The arm sure came in handy – heh, handy. They could still use my help finishing up the rec room renovations. But I can't stay here anymore. I should say goodbye to Father Czarnecki. And thank you._

_Too late, though. Everyone's asleep._

Exit shelter via kitchen to alleyway.

_Goodbye._

Proceed west to Gilbert Avenue bus station. Board oh two twenty-five Greyhound to Washington, DC. E.T.A. seventeen fifteen.

_Long drive. Might as well sleep._

***

Disembark and enter Union Station. Red Line to Metro Station. Blue Line to Smithsonian. Enter National Museum of American History.

_This is a bad idea._

Take cover and wait until closing. Evade initial security sweep.

_Right, here goes nothing._

Thirty-seven minutes until next security round. Third floor east wing.

_You again. They changed the display, removed the 1944 date at the bottom. Guess they had to, once they found out about me._

_I wanted to believe that you were dead and gone for good. I wanted to let you rest in peace. But you're still with me, aren't you? Fragments of you are, anyway, like shrapnel working its way into my brain. Snippets of songs I never heard, phrases I never used. What the hell does 'togged to the bricks' even mean, anyway?_

_The smell of Shinola shoe polish._

_The taste of strawberry ice cream._

Twenty-nine minutes to next security sweep.

_This is a really bad idea._

_What if it's the same? What if I can't breathe again?_

_Maybe I can stay at Natasha's for a while._

_But I wanna see him. He's lost, too. I should help him. I couldn't before but now...maybe. I need to try._

_So what the hell, I'll be Bucky. It's just a name, anyway. I could get used to it._

Twenty-two minutes to next security sweep. Remain in security camera blind spot to avoid detection.

_No, I don't care. I'm not hiding anymore. Besides, it's not technically stealing._

"These are mine. I just need to borrow them for a little while, okay?"

Retrieve uniform from mannequin.

_I don't know if this is right, but if this is what Steve needs, I'm going to give it to him._

***

Steve pauses at the door to his apartment, listening to the sound of muffled dance hall music on the other side. Experience tells him this can not be good. Steeling himself for the worst but hoping for the best, he quietly turns the key in the lock and heads in. When he rounds the corner into the living room he's brought up short, as if he's just tripped through a crack in space and time, right back to 1944.

Bucky's standing by the record player with his back to him, broad shoulders almost over-filling the blue field jacket of his Howling Commando uniform. He cocks his head slightly at the sound of Steve's last footfall. Then he turns, and suddenly Steve's face-to-face with Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th. His hair is shorter (not 1944 short, but shorter), and the grin on his clean shaven face is enough to knock the wind right out of Steve.

“What's the matter, cat got your tongue?” Bucky chuckles, grin widening. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

Steve swallows, tries to find his voice. “Just wasn't expecting you, that's all. You've been gone a while.” Two months, and no trail of burned out Hydra bases to follow this time. “Where ya been?”

Bucky shrugs. “Can't always be around to keep you out of trouble.”

In spite of the flippant smile he's flashing, Bucky's eyes are sharp and earnest, scanning Steve's face for a reaction to cue his next move. Steve takes a few slow steps towards him, tries to keep whatever emotion that's churning in his guts from making it's way into his face and voice.

“Bucky I...” he freezes, realizing his mistake almost before it's out of his mouth. But how could he possibly help it, with his best friend looking like he had stepped right out of that old black and white newsreel into the bright, Technicolor future? “I'm sorry,” he puts his hands up, placating, “I didn't mean...”

Bucky's smile fades. “No, it's okay,” he says gently. “I'm Bucky.” There's a beat of heavy silence before that once familiar, mischievous spark ignites in his eye. “Your taste in music hasn't entered the 21st century, I see.”

Steve closes the distance between them, picks up the vinyl's sleeve and pretends to study it.

“Are you complaining? You used to love Harry James and Sinatra.”

Bucky shrugs. “Nah, not complaining. I still like 'em.”

Steve hates himself for what he's about to do, but he needs to know if this is real or if they're just skirting the surface again. “Hey,” he says with a half-smile. “Remember when I was going to ask Rosemarie Giaquinto to the Valentine's dance at St. Ann's, and you were going to teach me how to foxtrot if she said yes?”

“Yeah, sure.” Bucky lowers his eyes and turns away. “Did she say yes?”

He doesn't remember. The cock-sure tone, the grin, the boy-from-Brooklyn drawl – all just an act he put on with the uniform.

“Nah,” Steve says lightly, brushing it off like it was no big deal. “Just as well. I came down with a fever and had to stay home.” At the time he was crushed, though you'd think he'd have been used to the rejection by then. The disappointment of that night was just a ripple compared to the swell of grief threatening to overtake him now, but he'll be damned if he lets it show. Bucky is the last person he wants to bleed on.

“Did you ever learn to dance?” Bucky asks, still not looking at him.

“Never had a reason to.”

Bucky whirls around. “Well then, no time like the present,” he says, and that shit eating grin of his is back. “I'll even let you lead. Just until you get the hang of it, of course.”

Before Steve can object – should he object? – Bucky grabs his hand and pulls him close, puts an arm around his shoulder. It only takes half a song for Steve to catch on (forward, forward, side close, back, back, side close), and soon they're dancing cheek-to-cheek like old pros. Steve's jaw tickles with the little buzz of vibration as Bucky hums along to the tune, and then, softly, begins to sing.

> _It's funny how a theme recalls a favorite dream_   
>  _Dream that brought you so close to me_
> 
> _Please have them play it again_   
>  _And I'll remember just when I heard that lovely song before_

They dance. Steve goes along for a while, but there's an ache in his chest that crescendos with every verse. Then Bucky turns to look at him, still singing, and there's a light almost shining behind his eyes – a tiny beacon on a still too distant shore – but there's light.

Steve stops abruptly and pulls away to draw a hand over his stinging eyes.

“What's wrong?” Bucky's searching his face for cues again. “Did I do something wrong?”

 _Pull it together, Rogers._ If this is what Bucky needs, for whatever reason, Steve's determined to give it to him. He takes a breath and pushes it down, shores up the walls as best he can.

“Nah, just something in my eye.” He always was a terrible liar, but mercifully Bucky doesn't call him on it.

He sniffs and clears his throat, circles Bucky's waist with his arm, and resumes the dance. Trying not to think about the weight of the metal arm resting on his shoulder, he focuses instead on the warmth of Bucky's right hand in his.

All too soon, that glimmer of light starts to fade from Bucky's eyes. Bucky slows and lowers his hand, until they're just standing there, barely swaying to the music and clinging to each other.

“I remember falling,” Bucky mumbles into the scratchy lull between songs. “You were there.”

An Arctic chill runs up Steve's spine. Through all the weeks and months of silence and laconic responses, he'd desperately wanted Bucky to open up and talk to him. Careful what you wish for. Of all the things Bucky could have said, those were the exact words Steve had never wanted to come out of his mouth. And now all the wishing in the world can't make him unhear them.

“I'm sorry, Buck. It was all my fault.” Tears are hot on his cheeks, but he doesn't let go to wipe them away. “I couldn't reach you. I wasn't fast enough. I'm so sorry.”

Everything he's been trying to contain since he walked in the door and laid eyes on Bucky in that damn uniform, everything he's been trying to contain over the past six months since Bucky first showed up on his doorstep – hell, the past two years since he came out of the ice – starts seeping through the cracks.

Bucky neither contradicts nor denies Steve's confession, refusing to convey upon him either absolution or blame.

“Sometimes I can't stand to look at you, ya know? I remember your face, seeing you watch me fall, and I can't even look at you.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You can't help your face,” Bucky flashes a smile to punctuate the joke, but quickly fades to serious again. “But you gotta stop looking at me like I'm lost.”

“Is that what I've been doing?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Well, if I do it again, just tell me or punch me or throw something I don't care. I'll stop. Just...don't run away again.”

Bucky heaves a sigh and looks at him with eyes clearer and more present than anything. “It wasn't your fault, what happened to me.”

And that's all it takes for the cracks in the walls to finally give way under a rush of heavy sobs. Steve's knees buckle and together they sink to the floor, still clutching each other.

“I need you to understand that, and to believe it,” Bucky says, giving him a rough shake. “D'ya hear? I need you to do that for me.”

Steve can only nod while,“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” plays on endless repeat.

“It's all right, pal,” Bucky says, and Steve believes him because he's Bucky, and he's here, and he's home. “We're gonna be okay.”

 

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Many thanks to Charlotte, my awesome beta reader from [The Beta Service](http://thebetaservice.tumblr.com/)! Check them out for all your beta reading needs. 2) Also a shout out to [hobbitkaiju](http://hobbitkaiju.tumblr.com/), whose [timely meta](http://hobbitkaiju.tumblr.com/post/92852254763/on-bucky-and-trauma) on the treatment of Bucky's recovery in fics helped me clarify and sort through some of the glaring issues I knew were in the first draft. 3) Partly inspired by [this Capkink prompt](http://capkink.dreamwidth.org/1349.html?thread=168517#cmt168517). 4) For this story I've assumed that the events of CA:TWS took place in October 2013 (thanks to the incredibly helpful [MCU Timeline Evidence Project](http://eatingcroutons.tumblr.com/mcu-timeline)).


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